My very first thought when I read this the first time, without any hesitation was a mother mourning the loss of a child who had died at a young age. I can picture her digging through boxes of things packed away, overwhelmed by grief and loss and anger at a life too precious or unfinished to ever let it go.
I can see why a child under the bed would think there was a "ghost" in the attic. A mom that grieves alone tries to hide it from her child thinking that it would upset them to see her like that, not realizing that she's doing harm of a completely different kind by revisiting, re-imagining, or even reliving, allowing the imagination of a child to fear what it can hear but not see.
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I can see why a child under the bed would think there was a "ghost" in the attic. A mom that grieves alone tries to hide it from her child thinking that it would upset them to see her like that, not realizing that she's doing harm of a completely different kind by revisiting, re-imagining, or even reliving, allowing the imagination of a child to fear what it can hear but not see.
Ooorrrr, I could be waayyyyy off base :D
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